


Stories Spawned By Sauron

by tehta



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cake, Drabble Collection, Gen, Humour, Vignette Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:33:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehta/pseuds/tehta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>One place to find them all</i><br/><i>One place to post them</i><br/><i>One place to keep them all</i><br/><i>And in one archive host them.</i><br/> </p><p>"Them" refers to those of my "works" that are too short or too ridiculous (even by my standards) to warrant a fic of their own. So, drabbles, vignettes, puzzles, maybe some "poetry".<br/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Puzzle, To Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Question: What is the name of the new holiday that Elu Thingol has introduced throughout Doriath? Can anyone crack this very simple code? 
> 
> The solution will be given in Chapter Four. 

"Has Elu lost his mind?" asked Mablung.

"Undoubtedly," said Beleg. "Giving him a piece of yours is unlikely to help, however, so do try to calm down."

"And what do you suggest we do, instead? Fulfill his decree? Even if I could stomach such an activity, I have no idea how I would go about it. All the possible targets dwell far outside our borders."

"Nevertheless, he is our king. Our duty bids us obey."

"Remember how well obeying Elu's decrees worked out for Beren Erchamion?"

"I think," continued Beleg, clearly ignoring the Beren-related outburst, "that, since we are the mightiest warriors hereabouts, it falls to us to help our people by tracking down and fetching a suitable subject. And I have to admit that I find the prospect of such a hunt very enticing."

"Now that you put it that way... Do you know, I believe we should leave at once. After all, while the hunt you suggest will help us celebrate the new holiday in a very literal way, some people might feel that it goes against its intended spirit."

"Yes, Mablung, I think that would be wise."


	2. With Apologies to Lady Bracknell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write a drabble about the tragic lives of the Noldor. It ended too soon.

"To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune," said Glorfindel. "But to lose three parents—a mother, a father, and a foster father—followed by a twin brother, a wife, not forgetting a cousin, King, and particular friend... And soon probably also a daughter... Well, that begins to look like carelessness. 

"And that is why I must regretfully say it again: no, Elrond, you may not borrow my horse."


	3. Staying Alive (Or Not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write another drabble about the tragic lives of the Noldor. This time I succeeded.

In the cold air, tears were unwise; words seemed as empty as the icy wastes. Nevertheless, Findarato had to speak.

“My condolences, Turukano.” He grasped the wooly layers protecting his cousin’s shoulder. “Condolences... and apologies.”

“You bear no blame!” Turukano placed one yak-gloved hand atop Findarato’s. “The ice looked strong; that crack was well-concealed. And I know you meant well... your intended to raise her spirits...”

“Yes, and her body temperature.” Findarato gazed down at Elenwe’s still, frost-covered form. She would never do jumping-jacks again.

Well, neither would he: the daily calisthenics would have to end. But, perhaps, disco classes?


	4. L is for Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron of Doriath is remembered for two things: his love of Luthien, and the invention of the Cirth script. In this vignette, Celeborn discovers that the two are not unrelated.

"But I tell you, I have never hurt a tree in my life!"

Celeborn ignored Daeron's protests and kept a firm hold on his elbow until they reached the wounded oak. "Are you telling me you aren't responsible for those cuts in the bark? Beleg swears he saw you make them."

"I meant no harm! Those marks are only... well, I call them 'writing.'"

"Writing?'"

"A permanent way of setting down ideas." Daeron caressed the scratches. "This part here is 'Luthien.'"

"Luthien?" Celeborn could not see it. "Looks more like a jumble of bird-tracks to me."

"The symbols represent not images, but sounds. A mere few dozen sounds can be combined to form any word. Here, let me show you your name." Daeron patted at his belt. "Oh dear. I seem to have misplaced my knife. May I borrow yours?"

Celeborn noted, but did not mention, the bone hilt protruding from Daeron's boot. "Why, so you can cut this fine tree up some more? Of course not. Use a stick."

Daeron picked up a fallen branch and stepped towards the tree.

"I meant, use it on the ground!"

"Right." Daeron leaned forward and drew more bird-tracks by the tree's roots. "Here. C-E-L-E-B-O-R-N. See? The 'N' at the end is the same. And this 'L'. Isn't 'L' a lovely letter?" He sighed.

"I... see." Celeborn glanced from the strangeness by his feet to the strangeness on the tree. Some bits did match. "So what does the rest of the tree-writing say? The part that isn't 'Luthien'?"

Daeron blushed. "'Daeron loves.'"

"Dae- Oh." So he had finally decided to tell her. Good for him. Still... "You do realize that Luthien won’t understand this declaration any more than I do?"

"I do not want her to!"

"Then why invent a way of setting the words down at all?" Celeborn glanced at Daeron's misplaced dagger. "As a reminder of what you feel, in case you forget?"

"I could never forget my feelings. No, I write them down as a monument to their timeless nature. I tried carving on stone, but..." Daeron held up a bandaged hand. "My chisel slipped."

"So you decided to attack a defenseless oak instead?" Celeborn clenched his fists. "Look here, Daeron, I know you're in love, but if I ever hear of you carving on a tree again, I'll... I'll carve something on you!"

When Daeron's eyes widened, Celeborn feared he had gone too far. Then the minstrel spoke. "Oh, would you? What a splendid idea! Trees fall, even stone may crumble, but I... I could wear 'Luthien' over my heart until the end of Arda. Just as I carry her in it."

Celeborn stared at him. "Well... just stay away from the trees, all right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Strangely enough, this ficlet made it through HASA's strict review process.
> 
> 1\. And now, the solution to Chapter One! It's an acrostic. Each sentence gives one letter!  
> A more detailed solution will be given in the next chapter.


	5. Fingon Invents The Helmet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We must remember that Fingon is very brave.

"Father!" Fingon burst into the tent. "I have it!"

Fingolfin studied the object in his son's outstretched hands.

"It… appears to be a bucket."

"Yes! A metal bucket! It came to me as I washed my hair--we do not have to cross the Ice, after all! Oh, I know that would be a great adventure," Fingon said with visible regret, "but even the packing is taking so long, and we have to go so far out of our way… I fear that, by the time we catch up with Uncle, there will be nothing left for us to do but mop up a few scattered Orcs and attend the victory celebrations. And that would be such a disappointment!"

"Indeed it would," said Fingolfin with feeling. "But how can a bucket help? They do not float, you know, not these heavy ones."

"I know. But, Father, remember how I suggested that maybe we could just walk or ride on the sea bottom, but you pointed out that both Elves and horses need air?"

At least his firstborn son was brave, Fingolfin reminded himself. "Yes, I do."

"Well, we could use buckets to take some air with us! And to weigh us down, too, or at least those of us who have a tendency to float."

"How would that work, exactly?"

"Like this!" Fingon turned the bucket upside down, raised it high, and placed it over his head. "SEE?" he boomed hollowly. "WE WOULD WEAR THEM. AND WALK EAST." He turned left and took a confident step forward. 

Right into the main tent pole. 

Fingolfin winced at the loud thunk, and the subsequent thud as Fingon's butt hit the ground. He hurried to his son's side. "Are you all right?" he asked, removing the slightly dented headgear.

"Oh yes. Though I now suspect that some eyeholes might be a good idea. And maybe a mouth-hole, for food? But then…" Fingon frowned mightily. "That could let the air out. Tricky."

"Fingon, look at me." Fingolfin checked the size of his pupils. "And, please, think… about the size of the buckets, if nothing else. They could never hold enough air for such a long journey."

"No? Are you sure?" Fingon rubbed his forehead. "I have asked the smiths to make two thousand buckets. I think they have already started."

"Never mind that now. Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three, of course. Oh, do not fuss so, Father: I hardly felt the blow. Lucky I was wearing the--" His frown cleared. "But this is wonderful!"

He looked excited, but unconcussed. "What is it now?" Fingolfin asked.

"Do you not see? We can use buckets for protection. Like the metal pouches we wear to play kickball, only on our heads! I must speak to the smiths at once, and order enough for all the warriors. Excuse me, Father!"

He leapt to his feet, and left as fast as he had arrived. Fingolfin sighed. Well, perhaps this new project would keep him busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. The answer to Chapter One is: HUG A FEANORIAN DAY!


	6. Message Not In A Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elwing's real story.

From a note tied to the foot of a seagull:

_My dearest Earendil,_

_I hope this bird has not pecked you. Wearing the jewel seems to make it snappish, but the port is under Feanorian attack, and I can think of no faster way to get the cursed thing to safety. I intend to follow by submarine: luckily, the underwater dock is right beneath the lighthouse window. Those boat-burning kin-slaying landlubbers might never know what happened._

_The kids are on a fishing trip. I trust they will have the sense to stay asea._

_Let us rendezvous in sector anca-two._

_Love, Elwing._


	7. In Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short vignette about young Maeglin in Nan Elmoth.  
> Not humour this time, honest.

The worst days are those when Mother and Father lock themselves in one room. Little escapes through the thick metal doors: a laugh, a shout, only just enough sound to prove they are still there.

The days when they lock themselves in two rooms are slightly better. Knowing that both are as alone as he is makes Maeglin feel like they are all together, somehow, but he still catches himself trailing behind the servants, watching them work, or even speaking to them as if they were worthy of conversation.

He prefers the days when his parents move through the house, always a few rooms apart. He is useful then, and they teach him their secrets in return for each other's.

\---

 

"Do you know where your father is?"

Mother approaches down the hall, her arms full of white lace. It quivers slightly even after she herself has stopped, like soap-suds prodded with a bored finger.

"Yes. He went into the western forge an hour ago."

"Good. Come with me: I want to show you something."

She leads him to the reception room, and lets him help her lace up her lovely new dress. A ball gown, she calls it: when she spins, its skirts swirl around her ankles like foam, hardly touching the dusty floor. Her eyes half-closed, she hums a lively tune; then she takes Maeglin's hands, places them at her waist and shoulder, and teaches him to dance.

\---

 

Father hammers at heated metal. "What did your mother do today?"

"She made a new dress. And danced."

"Foolishness," Father says, in between blows. The forge-fire spits its agreement. 

Maeglin is glad he kept his part in the foolishness to himself. 

"And then," he adds, before Father can guess at it, "a messenger from Doriath came to the gate."

Father slides the metal back into the flames, and watches it with narrow eyes. "Did she let him in?"

"No. She shot arrows around him until he dropped his letter and ran."

Father's laughter is as sudden as his hammer-blows, and almost as loud, but warm rather than hollow. Maeglin shrinks back: it is the laughter from behind closed doors. He has misjudged, and now the worst days will begin again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I wrote this vignette for Sirielle.


	8. The Elves All Like Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silliness featuring Elves, Boromir, and his horse. Also, poetry.

Boromir looked up at the elaborately carved gates of Rivendell. Now that he had reached his goal, he found himself hesitating.

"What wisdom will we find beyond these gates?" Boromir whispered to his horse. Talking to his faithful steed was a habit he had acquired during his long, perilous, and often lonely journey. "Will it be enough to save our beloved city?"

Suddenly, the gates opened, and a large group of people ran out to greet him. Boromir immediately knew they were elves, for their builds were slender, their hair long and free-flowing, and their genders -- ambiguous. He stared, for he had never seen elves before.

Then, all at once, the elves began to sing.

 

_O! Why are you staring?_   
_We elves all like preening._   
_Your gear needs repairing._   
_Your clothes need much cleaning._   
_O! What are you doing,_   
_And where are you going?_   
_Our beer it is brewing,_   
_Our pipe-weed is growing._   
_O! tril-lil-lil-lolly_   
_The valley is jolly,_   
_Ha! Ha!_

_And what are you seeking,_   
_O captain of Gondor?_   
_Why are you not speaking?_   
_It's making us wonder._   
_You seem to like posing_   
_Your horse many questions._   
_D'you take his suggestions?_   
_Is his wit more imposing_   
_Than Gandalf's, and Elrond's_   
_Here down in the valley?_   
_Ha! Ha!_

_Come enter our dwelling!_   
_What tale are you bringing?_   
_Why are you not telling?_   
_Don't you like our singing?_   
_Do you find it grating?_   
_Is that why you're waiting?_   
_O! tra-la-la-lally,_   
_Here down in the valley!_   
_Ha! Ha!_

 

"On second thoughts," said Boromir to his horse, "I do not think we should go to Rivendell. It is a silly place."


	9. Bulwer-Lytton time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My entries for a 'worst first lines' challenge at HASA. Warnings for: OOCness, bad writing, immature handling of adult matter, and general stupidity.

**The Seven Jewels**

This is the story of 7 sisters: Emerald, Ruby, Topaz, Opal, Saphire, Coral and Pearl who meet the Sons of Feanor and marry them (although they hate them at first, LOL) ad turn them Good and then help them find the three Simarills and make 4 more Simalrills and stick Maedhros hand back on.

_This really is the worst Silmarillion story I can think of._

 

**Healing Eowyn**

Eowyn gained much wisdom in Halls of Healing, for she learned that, while the hands of a king are the hands of a healer, the member of a steward is the member of a particularly well-hung stallion.

 

**Feanor, Child of Fire**

Miriel shut the door behind her lover and reached for the ointment, thinking that, although second-degree burns in intimate places were both painful and hard to explain to her husband, the fiery love she shared with Gothmog made it all worthwhile.

_I actually almost wrote this one._

 

**Whoopsie**

As he watched Maedhros' severed left hand tumble down the clifface, Fingon realized just how hard it is to perform field surgery while riding a giant eagle.

 

**That Fiend Felagund**

Finrod chuckled evilly as he ladled yet another helping of Dwarf liver in Human brain sauce onto his entwood plate, the frantic screams of the servants he had flogged to build up his appetite echoing sweetly in his ears.

_There is nothing that says 'badfic' to me like hideous OOCness. I hope this qualifies._

 

**Gandalf's Final Thoughts**

As he prepared to face the Balrog, Gandalf felt a strange sensation in his bowels and, for the first time in his life, envied Radagast his unattractive brown robes.

_I believe this is my personal worst entry. I mean, how could I sink any lower?_


	10. "A Man Falls Off A Horse"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in a Silm fanfic writers' workshop we once had, as a response to the exercise, "Describe a man falling off a horse using four different POVs." I did not write about a man, not exactly, but I ended up amused.

Then did Sauron decide to send his Ringwraiths out far and wide, and to this purpose he bid his Orcs raid the horse-herds of Men. And the Orcs returned with many beasts, and brought them before the Nazgul, and in time the Nazgul learnt to ride swift as a storm-wind over the hills. And yet this was no simple task, for the horses sensed their foulness and despised them, and the Witch-king of Angmar was thrown; and his lieutenant laughed cruelly to see him brought so low. Then the Witch-king's wrath was great, and he put the Orcs to torment.

———

While the Orcs fetched the horses, memory jumbled Khamul's thoughts as if an errant breeze had surged in under his robe, stirring his spirit. He had loved riding once.

"Fetch me a mount, Khamul," the Witch-king said.

Yes, Khamul had loved riding once, loved it more than the study of magic; that is how he had ended up second in power to a bookish boor. But at least he still knew a difficult horse on sight. The Witch-king accepted his choice without question.

When he came off the horse, laughter swept through Khamul like wind rushing through a rider's hair.

———

I did not fall off my horse. The horse threw me. Either way, it is hardly my fault; I daresay the beast was frightened by the touch of my unearthly flesh. Besides, riding while semi-corporeal is a subtle art. And I have not sat upon a horse since... my death, I suppose. None of us has.

Ai, by Morgoth's chains, but look at Khamul, high up on his docile mount! I bet the remnants of my cursed soul that he has been practicing in secret. Just as he practices that evil laugh of his. Yes, that laugh. Well done, Khamul.

———

They tell us to steal horses from Men. We steal horses. We do not eat them. Not very many, anyway. Only the ones with some non-black bits. They like black things, and spiky things, too. We try to find spiky horses, but we fail. They can put the spikes in themselves. We cringe, in case they put spikes in us as well, as punishment.

For now they ignore us, while their leader mounts the horse Ugluk caught. Good.

No! Not good! The leader hits the dust like a worthless, chewed-up bone!

Run! Hide! Throw Ugluk at them--he'll slow them down!


	11. The Iron Prison Diet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Salgant's life in Angband -- so, after the events of Quo Vadis.
> 
> (This was a gift for Wulfila.)

Salgant used to prefer sweet dishes, but these cravings have faded. Now, such fare seems slight, like children's rhymes, when compared to an epic masterpiece like the juicy joint of meat in his hand.

"You like it?" asks the cook. "Roast Elf, you know."

Salgant remembers the burning city, and the food in his mouth turns to ash. He spits it out.

The cook laughs. "Just a joke! Good one, yes?" 

Salgant, Angband's authority on humour, agrees politely: Orcish cooks are artists worth befriending. Perhaps even magicians, for though he eats his fill here, he remains slim as a reed.


	12. On Elflings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two drabbles about Earendil the energetic child, involving various inhabitants of Gondolin.

**A Useful Tradition**

“You know, Idril,” said Glorfindel, “Tarnin Austa is based on a Vanyarin tradition. One my parents enjoyed.”

“Your parents enjoyed a summer festival -- in Valinor?”

"Not quite: they called it the everyone-stay-quiet-until-Laurelin-blooms festival, and it happened often. Sound was forbidden, but also sports, and drawing on the walls...”

“Mother never mentioned this custom.”

“Well, you left so young... But I thought you might try the broader version with your own family. Earendil knows so little of his heritage.”

Idril supposed she did look tired. “So, was climbing the furniture allowed?”

“Of course not. Climbing is a sport.”

Idril smiled.

 

**Thoughful Gifts**

“Why, Ecthelion? Why?”

Was Tuor truly upset? His expression was dark, but he looked more tired than anything. “Why what?”

“Why the drum?”

“Well, it was his begetting day... and Earendil is young for the flute. Moreover,” continued Ecthelion more confidently, “Idril herself suggested something musical. I asked her deliberately, because of her... past displeasure.”

“Right, with last year’s practice sword.” Tuor’s frown deepened. “When we confiscated it, he cried for days. Then, the year before, the realistic spider figurine, which he carried everywhere. People kept screaming.

“And so, I must decree: next year, you are restricted to warm socks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. The first drabble was written for the "Tradition" and "Idril" prompts at Back To Middle Earth Month 2013.  
> 1\. Tarnin Austa was a festival held in Gondolin, one including a night-long silent vigil.  
> 2\. It is canonical that Earendil was fond of Ecthelion. In "Fall of Gondolin", he gets very upset when told of his death, and remembers how Ecthelion would sing to him and make him willow-whistles.


	13. On Mingling with the Green-elves of Ossiriand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This drabble was inspired by various discussion of the trailer for the second Hobbit film.

“But why did she marry that oaf?”

“Oh, Celegorm,” said Curufin. “Aredhel was hardly the first to try the Sinda-in-the-woods thing.”

“The what?”

“You know... the thing where you wander the woods, meet a comely Dark Elf, and get seduced into going native...” Curufin grinned craftily. “For a while.”

“This is something people do? People I know?”

“Yes! Finrod, of course... Then Amrod... And Orodreth -- where did you think he got little Rodnor?”

“From that Sindarin woman who followed him just to make a scene.”

“So she did! That must be why Maedhros left HIS kid with the mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, this is one theory for how the Silvan Tauriel ended up with red hair. (Not that I am opposed to the idea that some Avari had Noldorin haircolours, or, indeed, to the idea that Elves know how to use henna.)


	14. Unwritten Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here are some brief snippets inspired by the following LJ meme:
> 
>  
> 
> _Tell me about a story I haven't written, and I'll give you between one and three sentences from that story._  
>  (I think responses in the format of story reviews or recs are the most amusing.)
> 
>  
> 
> I am not really sure this is worth posting, but I did get some rather ingenious prompts (I mean, just look at that last one!) and I did manage to stick to just three sentences each time...

**Prompt One:** _God, sorry I haven't gotten around to reviewing your first Fingon/Maedhros fic ever! I thought the hand jokes you scattered through the narrative were all very funny. The sudden appearence of Glorfindel and Ecthelion was not, as you implied in your author's note, completely gratuitous. Also, the bit about the dog._

"Hey, Maitimo, would you give me a hand?" Findekano asked quickly, before his courage could desert him. "You see, there is a hot dog in my pants, and only you can set it free."

And then he just stood there, waiting for the confused expression to leave his cousin's beautiful face, feeling the scrabble of small, pre-heated claws move closer and closer to his Noldohood, and swearing to himself that he would never follow Glorfindel's advice again.

***

 **Prompt Two:** _I enjoyed your 183-chapter Epic about Lobelia S-B's journey of self-discovery while being mentored by Thranduil._

"And this," said Thranduil, picking up the gem-studded rod with a flourish, "is my favourite _nad nestaged_ , an ancient treasure once wielded by Melian the Maia in the caves of Doriath."

Lobelia had thought she understood desire, but as she watched him toy with the well-shaped item, its oiled jewels sparkling in the firelight like shooting stars, she knew she had never coveted anything so much in her life. Oh, how she longed to wear it, and put it to use, both here in the Elf-King's chambers, and in the snug Hobbit-holes of the Shire!

***

 **Prompt Three:** _Something about Glorfindel's prophecy about the Witch-King of Angmar._

"No, Earnur," said Glorfindel, "he will not die at the hand of a boy, or a donkey, or of a swift kick to the head, or -- especially -- not of a swift kick to the head delivered by an underage donkey, and I do wish you would stop asking me to reveal the nature of my prophetic vision, as it is rather like asking a bard to sing the conclusion of an epic tale first, ruining the element of surprise."

"Perhaps," said Earnur, "but surely one might ask a bard to hurry up, if one suspects that one's own life will end sooner than his epic tale?"

"Oh, right, you're mortal; I keep forgetting."

***

 **Prompt Four:** _I am probably beating a dead horse here, as mentions of these fic as the one where Ecthelion does insane things and leaves his post for love or two words: Orc banquet! have been making the round in connoisseur circles for weeks now, but I am still going to say it again: Go and read tehta's Unfairly Flawless now, you will not regret it!_

_Based on her earlier masterpiece about a skiing Glorfindel, the author has him go missing during a snowshoe expedition and pronounced dead after his torn clothing, a mangled elf skull and rather too much golden hair have been found. The second half of Chapter 1, with Ecthelion in mourning, is therefore unusually devoid of the typical tehta humour, but things start looking up when, during one of his stints at the gate, he is utterly certain to have glimpsed Glorfindel's ski bonnet (that has, strangely, never been found) on an orc's head from afar and, after some very Ecthelionish inner torment, makes the very Un-Ecthelionish decision to desert on the spot and go on an insane quest of revenge or - perhaps, just perhaps! - rescue. Since this is all still in Chapter 1, it is not a big spoiler if I tell you that Glorfindel is, in fact, alive and has been captured by orcs that manage to lure Ecthelion into a trap as well, and that orc commander Grushkul (a brilliant OC if there ever was one!) is such a lover of music with an interest in exotic elven tunes (fueled even further by Glorfindel's defiant renditions of the orc-slaying ditty during the last months) that he simply must find out if Ecthelion can beat the famous orc minstrel Ushgurk in an impromptu competition at the banquet held for a visiting balrog lord that very evening... You think you know where this is going, don't you? Anguished declarations of love, desperate kisses in an orc dungeon, and talk of heroic double suicide? WRONG._

_For what makes this story so charming (apart from the ski bonnet running gag that I won't spoil, but that had me laughing out loud every second chapter or so) is the fact, that from Chapter 2 on, the tale is mostly told from Salgant's POV. Salgant, you see, is in the area with his famous hoarse patrol, and after some gloating about his main musical rival's desertion and inevitable ruin, his better nature or his desire to shame the unfairly flawless Ecthelion by rescuing him singlehandedly (he can't quite decide which) wins out, and what happens then is ... epic, truly epic, and I won't spoil the remaining 5 chapters for you._

_(Well, no - just one tiny little spoiler for the very last chapter. I think the scene in which Ecthelion fakes a sore throat and complete writer's block out of gratitude so that Salgant can win the "city's finest composer" award for the first and last time, explaining how he got that wreath mentioned in Quo Vadis, is funny enough to make the fic well worth reading even if you don't care for the rest)._

_So: Go read it, everyone!_

The first helping of cake tasted surprisingly delicious, chocolatey with subtle hints of cinnamon and chestnut; the second still tasted delicious, though no longer surprisingly so; the fifth seemed heavy and over-sweetened; and by the tenth, Salgant was feeling thoroughly nauseated, and wishing for a palate-cleansing salad. Still, he chewed on, bravely, for his entire plan -- and thus, the fate of his fellow captains, his musical reputation, and even his stolen hat -- hinged on his ability to make a hole large enough to conceal a portly elf.

He only hoped that his over-loaded stomach would permit him to leap out of the cake with the necessary amount of panache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Thanks to zeen, lenine, anna wing, and wulfila for the prompts.  
> 1\. I believe _nad nestaged_ translates as "thing of inserting. At least, that is what I wanted to say.


End file.
